Running Blind
by Lady Breetai
Summary: Cobra's been spotted along the borders of the Soviet Union. Low-Light is sent to diffuse the situation, and finds himself in a battle against the Russians and the land itself. But will his unlikely teammate be their downfall?
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. of _G.I. Joe_ are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. I am in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Author's note: This story takes place shortly before the events of _The Invaders_ in the Cartoon continuity.

* * *

><p>Darkness. Thick, inky darkness. It threatened to overtake everything in its wake. Well… almost everything.<p>

Low-Light flipped the switch on his radio. "Target's in sight, Recondo. You in position?"

"Affirmative," a voice came back.

A short distance to his right, Beach Head came online. "You men prepare to move when I give the signal. Understand?"

"Yes, Sir," they answered in unison.

Deep in the heart of the Mexican jungle, mysterious sightings from local authorities had gotten G.I. Joe's attention. Beach Head, Recondo and Low-Light were sent to check them out. All of their investigating led them to an ancient temple near the Rio Brave crawling with snakes of a _different_ kind.

Low-Light focused his night goggles on the large communications disk fixed on top of the temple. A proud smirk creased his features. He had exactly the right weapon to take that sucker out. Lowering his pack, he started digging.

"What the…" he frowned. Frantically he searched again. "Where is it?"

"Alright, Low-Light…" came Beach Head's voice. "Now!"

Immediately he jerked up. "Wait!"

Uh-oh. His fellow Joes weren't the only ones who heard that. Two Crimson Guards turned and started firing in his direction. Fortunately, his teammates returned the gunfire.

Low-Light dodged a shot skimming close to his ankle. "Great… gotta think fast." A smaller pistol at the bottom of his pack caught his eye. 'If I can just make the shot…'

Beach Head loaded another laser cartridge into his firearm. "Now would be a good time, Low-Light!"

"I'm hurrying! I'm hurrying!" Raising the pistol to eye level, he focused on his target.

"Low-Light…"

"Got it!"

Red light shot across the damp sky. Striking one of the guard's weapons, they could only watch as it flew backwards just as he depressed the trigger. A blue laser smashed into the disk above, illuminating the night with the explosion.

Major Bludd slunk out from behind some rigging near the base of the temple. "Cobra, retreat! Now!"

The men didn't hesitate. The Joes chased them with laser fire, watching them escape in their choppers.

Beach Head turned to his men. "Well done, boys. Although you didn't have to wait so long to take that shot, Low-Light."

"It's not my fault!" he growled. "My Black Razor's gone. Besides, I made the shot, didn't I?"

"You sure did!" Recondo winked.

The men moved in to survey the base for anything valuable they could take back to Headquarters. But Low-Light couldn't help wonder what happened to his prized weapon.

"Funny," he said casually. "I know I packed it before we left. And I know I didn't take it out at all the whole time."

Recondo flipped through some communications printouts. Then he bolted upright. "Hey! I just remembered something. Back at the base, I saw a Private checking the gear in the helicopter before we left."

Low-Light looked up at him. "Yeah… I remember him. He was loading supplies with a few other Greenshirts… I wonder…"

* * *

><p>The trip back to America was only a few hours. But for a man separated from his beloved firearm, it was pure agony.<p>

Gently the helicopter landed on the tarmac; courtesy of Wild Bill. Low-Light grabbed his duffel bag and headed for the hatch. Sure enough, the Private in question was waiting there; ready to unload the vehicle with the others.

"Alright, Private, what's going on?" snarled Low-Light.

"Excuse me, Sir?" The youth didn't get a chance to answer as the Sergeant's hands gripped him by the collar.

"Don't _excuse me_, Kid! Why did you take my Black Razor out of my pack?"

"I… I was ordered to…"

"Who gave the order?" he growled, holding the boy up in the air.

"Co… Cor..."

"Low-Light! Put him down!"

The sharpshooter turned; Beach Head's green balaclava looming behind him. Then he looked at the boy again and dropped him to the ground. Frozen in fear, he didn't budge when Low-Light moved close to his face. "Who gave the order?"

Silently he pulled a written order from his pocket. Reading it over, a _Corporal E. H. Baxter_ was scrawled along the bottom. Low-Light looked down at the Private again. "Where's this 'Baxter'?"

At first he didn't say anything; merely pointing towards the stream of offices near the tarmac. "In the main Admin Office, I think!"

Beach Head approached him. "Cool it, Low-Light. Ain't no sense makin' a fool of yourself over a gun." He seemed to ignore him, and the Southerner watched him head off towards the offices.

Several assistants and aides were working in the Administration Office right then. None of them were known for their speed or agility, but they sure jumped to their feet when Low-Light slammed the door open. Quickly he stomped towards the nearest desk – the blonde lieutenant before him shaking like a leaf.

"Alright," he barked. "Where's Corporal Baxter?"

"You _bellowed_?"

Low-Light turned. She looked like another aide, but had way more decorations on her brown Army jacket. She must have come out of the office door just behind him on his left. Her blondish brown hair was pulled back in a bun, and she had way too much make-up on to be within regulation in his opinion. He would have snickered if he weren't so shocked.

"You're Baxter?" he snapped.

She saluted him. "Bonjour."

"…Huh?"

"Hola; Guten tag; Buon giorno," she continued. "All ways you could have introduced yourself without shouting at these poor ladies." Then she extended her hand and smiled. "The codename's Milady, by the way. What can I do for you, Soldier?"

Low-Light took a step forward. "You gave an order to have my personal property removed from my bag for an important mission."

At first she seemed confused. "Ah, yes. The Black Razor," she remembered.

"I needed that weapon! We would have been fried if I hadn't come up with a way to save us! What gave you the gall to take it without my permission?"

Milady locked her hands on her hips. "The Black Razor is considered an illegal weapon in Mexico; something I'm not sure you were aware of Mr…"

"Low-Light."

"Thank-you. Anyways, my job is to make sure you soldiers get clearance into the countries you flit around to, and to keep an international crisis from starting every time you blow up something you shouldn't." She walked over to a filing cabinet and leaned on it. "If you had been caught with that thing by the Mexican authorities, there would be no way I could get G.I. Joe back in again – even if Cobra was blowing the place apart."

He could hear her talking, but it was all just a bunch of noise. "Are you serious, lady?"

"Mi-lady," she corrected. "Believe me – it's a full time job keeping the peace back here while you fight for it out there. Besides, you obviously got the job done without the Black Razor, and it's been returned to your commanding officer."

"Listen, lady!" he shouted. The sharpshooter was ready to lose it, and he jabbed a finger towards her chest. "I outrank you, and don't think I won't report you for interfering with an important assignment!"

Her eyes narrowed. Silently she stepped forward and stared him down until they were almost nose-to-nose. "Sergeant, you may outrank me out there, but in here, you are in _my_ world. If you have an issue, take it up with your superiors. But I do not want to see you terrorize these officers again. Do you understand?"

He was about to answer when Beach Head walked in. "Low-Light, I thought I told you to lay off! Excuse us, ladies."

At once Beach Head grabbed the blonde soldier by the arm and dragged him out of the office. But not before Low-Light uttered something under his breath.

"Lousy Office Joe…"

_Office Joe_. It was an expression she hated almost as much as the word _Cobra_; harmless in itself, but derogatory and cruel.

It was a nasty term someone came up with to describe those who served the Joes off the battlefield. What it implied was that you were not quite good enough to really be a member of G.I. Joe, and you were there just because somebody had to file papers; or mop the floor; or serve food to the ravenous soldiers.

One of the aides in the back with short black hair licked her finger and made a mark in the air with it. "That's one for the Office Joes."

The other women cheered with excitement, but quickly froze when Milady turned their way. Immediately they sat down and continued working – all except one.

"That was some show you put on, Milady," said the red-haired woman. She had about the same number of decorations as she did, and didn't seem intimidated by the other officer.

Milady let out a sigh of relief. "Thanks, Vixen." Then they walked over to the coffee pot on a nearby desk. "Do you think I was too harsh?"

"Nah." Vixen sucked back some of the coffee she just poured. "It's about time somebody showed that jerk that we actually do something important around here."

Milady poured her own cup but didn't drink it right away. "Still… maybe I could have handled that differently."

"Humph. I wouldn't worry about it," Vixen assured her. "Besides, what's the likelihood you're ever going to see that _Low-Life_ again?"

* * *

><p>Outside, the mood was just as tense. At first neither of them said anything. Finally Beach Head broke the silence. "Low-Light, I'm disappointed in you. Where were you raised – in a barn? That ain't no way to talk to those ladies."<p>

"Lay off, Beach Head. Don't you realize what that _Office Joe_ did? She could have gotten us killed!"

The drill sergeant stopped him in his tracks. Low-Light knew him well enough to know he was perturbed. "Maybe, but Milady's a good officer. All of them are. They're here because they're the best at what they do, and we need people like them – whether you like it or not."

Low-Light wouldn't answer. Fortunately, Duke pulled up in a jeep beside them right at the perfect moment.

"Low-Light," he ordered, "General Hawk wants to see you in the Intelligence Room."

"Yes, Sir!" the soldier replied. Beach Head watched him run towards the Intelligence Room – an undeniable eagerness in his gait.

* * *

><p>Down in the Intelligence Room, Hawk was studying a giant map screen along the back wall. His fingers traced a mysterious trail along the expanse. He was so focused, he didn't even hear anyone move behind him.<p>

"You wanted to see me, Sir?"

"Aw, Low-Light. Come in." At once the soldier obeyed. "I see you got my orders."

"Yes, General," he saluted. "What's going on?"

Hawk looked down at the clipboard in his hand and approached the desk between them. "I know you just got back from Mexico, but I wanted to ask you something."

"Of course. Anything."

"I need you for a special mission, Low-Light."

Well, that got him excited. He practically forgot the incident at the Admin Office at the sound of that. "Don't worry, General. I'm your man. Just point me at those crazies and I'll…"

"Hold on a minute, Soldier," the commander laughed. "This mission is going to take more than guns and fists. You're going to need an expert communicator with you."

He puffed his chest confidently and put his fists on his hips. "No problem. I'll get Dialtone and we'll get this mission licked in no time."

"I appreciate the offer, Low-Light, but Dialtone's not going on this mission. I've ordered another expert to join us." He pulled back his sleeve and looked at his watch. "She should be here any minute."

"…She?"

High heels clicked behind him. "Milady reporting as ordered, General Hawk."

"Aww, great," the sharpshooter muttered, shaking his head in his hand.

Moving beside him, Milady was just as surprised. Hawk raised an eyebrow. "I take it you two know each other?"

They glared at one another. "We've met," the woman finally answered.

"Good," Hawk replied. "I've called you two here because I have a very special mission I need you to work on. You both know who Peter Norvalev is, right?"

"Of course," she asserted. "He's the General Secretary of the Soviet Union."

Low-Light huffed under his breath. "Well, looks like we got a real brain surgeon here."

General Hawk ignored the comment. "Norvalev is trying to make strides towards democracy, but let's just say that not every comrade is too happy about it."

Milady arched an eyebrow of her own. "What kind of _comrades_ are we talking about, General?"

"Mostly weapons dealers. Some of them are former high level Soviet officials, though, and we think they might be working with Cobra." Rummaging through a drawer, he handed her a manila folder. "Cameras on one of our subs caught these images at a port near Kaliningrad. We think these are some of Cobra's connections."

Milady opened the folder and started examining the pictures. Handing them off to Low-Light, she gasped at one near the middle of the pack.

"Is something wrong, Milady?" asked the General.

At once her face shot up. "Sir, I'm afraid I must decline the mission."

Low-Light glanced at her out of the corner of his goggles. "What's the matter? Scared you're going to break a nail?"

"Hardly," she glared at him. Then she turned to their superior. "Sir, I feel there are other Joes much more suited for this mission than I am. Take Lady Jaye for example. She is an expert at espionage."

Hawk stared at her; as firm as ever. "I beg to differ, Milady." The two watched him walk over to the map screen. "The Soviet Union is one area where we Joes don't have the advantage. Any hint of a threat, and the Russians will declare war." He turned and faced them again. "This mission requires the utmost secrecy and care. That's why I chose you two; Low-Light because he's the best sharpshooter we've got, and is our most covert operative; you because you are the closest thing we have to a diplomat, and can get the two of you out of the country in one piece if something goes wrong."

Low-Light could tell she was starting to accept the idea, but she still seemed doubtful. "So what do you say, sister? Are you up for it – or just chicken?"

"That's enough, Low-Light," Hawk warned.

"It's alright, Sir," she added. "If you think we're the best, then I know we're the best. Count me in."

The General smiled. "Glad to hear it." He motioned for them to join him at the electronic map. His finger marked a specific spot. "We'll drop you off along the coast near Kaliningrad. It's the closest we can get you in without starting World War III."

"There's just one problem, Sir."

"Great," Low-Light groaned. "Now what?"

Again she ignored his rudeness. "Though Russian is the main language spoken throughout the country, each region has its own language and people group." Moving to a control panel, Milady entered data into the device. Multiple colors burst forth; the map becoming something like a patchwork quilt. "I don't even know half these languages, let alone Russian."

Hawk smirked. "I already thought of that…"

_To be continued…_


	2. Chapter 2

Author's notes: The word, _Bjarga,_ is a Scandinavian name meaning "to help, to save, to protect". Enjoy!

* * *

><p>"Aren't you finished with those, Shipwreck?"<p>

The sailor looked up. "Geesh, Low-Light. Give it a rest, will ya? I was just checkin'…"

The sharpshooter didn't let him finish. The laser cartridges swept out of his hands, and quickly found a home in Low-Light's pack.

Shipwreck let off a smug grin. "Well, somebody got up on the wrong side of the bunk this morning. What's the matter – can't handle life at sea?"

Low-Light wouldn't answer. He'd never admit it, but he never did like the ocean that much; probably from growing up in the middle of farm country.

Silently he slipped from the Weapons Room of the giant aircraft carrier into the hallway; Shipwreck running to catch up with him. Traveling down the way, a familiar form caught Low-Light's eye.

"You've been at that for days. Aren't you going to take a break?"

Shipwreck followed his gaze. In a small cabin, Milady was sitting on a bunk with a Russian phrasebook in one hand; something metallic flashing in the other.

She pressed a button on the device and turned to them. "Someone has to program this thing."

That _thing_ was a remote translator General Hawk had Dialtone and Breaker put together for the mission. Worn like a hearing aid, it allowed the wearer to hear a spoken language translated into any other language desired. There were two drawbacks, though; one, the thing had to be pre-programmed with the different languages; and two, they only had time to finish one of them before Low-Light and Milady left. Since she was the more experienced negotiator, she would have to wear it.

Milady had shut herself away in her cabin for most of the journey to record the various phrases and words they may encounter. But even she knew he was right – she needed a break. Putting the device and the book in her pack, she stood and approached the men.

Shipwreck nudged the other Joe in the ribs. "Talk about your lack of manners, Low-Light!"

"What?" he snapped and rubbed the spot.

"We've been out here for five days and you haven't introduced me to the little lady?" Coyness in his eyes, he reached out his hand to the woman. "The name's Shipwreck, Ma'am. And yours?"

"Milady," she offered.

At first she thought they would just shake hands. So did Low-Light. But without warning, Shipwreck pulled her hand to his lips and kissed it.

"Geesh, Shipwreck!" Low-Light groaned. "Can't you do anything without making a fool of yourself?"

"On the contrary," Milady countered, "I find it rather refreshing to see a gentleman among the ranks of G.I. Joe."

The golden-haired Joe stared at her blankly. "You really never _have_ met Shipwreck, have you?"

The sailor in question was about to slug him when an Ensign approached. The three saluted him and he in return. "Sergeant, Corporal, General Hawk wants to see you on the bridge..."

* * *

><p>The bridge of the <em>U.S.S. Carl Vinson <em>was one of the finest in the fleet. Any soldier would feel a sense of pride setting foot inside, and General Hawk was no different.

"She's a thing of beauty, Admiral Benson," Hawk admired.

Benson laughed and ran his hand along the main control board. "Indeed. I never thought she'd play such a role in the fight against terrorism. I hope it's not the last."

Hawk smiled. "Me neither." Just then, Low-Light and Milady entered the bridge. "Welcome, you two. We'll be reaching the launch point in about two hours, and I wanted to go over our plans."

"Yes, Sir," they replied in unison.

Hawk motioned for them to join him and Admiral Benson at another map screen. "Several Soviet vessels have been spotted circling the harbor. However, there's a small opening in that fleet close to where the Lithuanian population lives. Norvalev just signed a treaty between the Soviets and Sweden, and they've agreed to allow peaceful travel through a route southwest of Gotland to Stockholm."

Benson stepped forward. "We've commandeered a small Swedish fishing boat to get you close to shore. Shipwreck will pilot it, and will sail it back here once you're off."

"A life raft will be lowered so you can paddle to the beach," Hawk continued. "Once there, get rid of the raft and start heading towards this factory in the harbor." The man handed them a satellite image of the place. "That's the last place we spotted Cobra, and it's probably the best place to start your investigation. Any questions?"

"Just one, General," said Milady. "What about the Russians themselves?"

"You've got your fake passports; that should get you through most checkpoints." Then his face grew grave. "However, if you are attacked, under no circumstances are you to engage the Soviets. Any retaliation could be seen as an act of war. Enter the cities when you need to, but try to keep to the woods. Understand?"

"Yes, General," Low-Light saluted. Milady shared his response.

"Good. Meet me and Shipwreck at Launch Bay 5 in two hours…"

* * *

><p>Up…<p>

Down…

Up…

Down…

So went the _Bjarga_ along the sea. Sadly, Low-Light's stomach was doing the same thing with each wave. It took everything he had not to run for the side.

Just then Shipwreck laid a hand on his shoulder. "What's the matter, Low-Light? You're not getting seasick, are you?"

Ignoring his taunts, the sharpshooter turned as Milady entered the wheelhouse. Pensively she watched the waves roll ahead of them; lost in deep thought. A cool gust cut through the cabin door in the back, making her clutch her parka even tighter.

"Don't tell me you don't like the cold?"

"Nonsense," replied Milady. "I've dealt with cold weather most of my life."

"Good, 'cause I'm not hauling your pencil-pushing backside across this frozen wasteland."

Her eyes narrowed. "And what is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Whoa," Shipwreck interrupted. "Time out, compadres. If it gets any hotter in here, you won't even need those parkas. Besides," he pointed in front of them, "we're almost there."

Low-Light and Milady followed his finger. Sure enough, dark sand loomed in the distance - stark against the expanse of snow and barren trees.

Both of them grabbed their packs at the back and headed towards the stairwell. The boat struggled against the tide with each tug closer to shore. Seeing them reach the raft, Shipwreck grabbed the intercom. "I'll get you in as close as I can. When I give the signal, launch the raft and paddle for it!"

"Got it!" Low-Light shouted. Both of them loaded their gear into the craft. Then reaching for the cables, one by one they untied them. Only the last rope hung stiffly in Low-Light's hand; waiting for their cue as Milady climbed in.

"Alright…" the sailor's voice trailed off. "NOW!"

The Joe let go. With a shove, Low-Light pushed the life raft over the side and jumped in himself as it descended. Icy spray plumed around them; the inflated device not much of a cushion against the frigid Baltic Sea. The two wasted no time reaching for the oars...

Shipwreck watched the surface, making sure they made it off all right. Then a red blip moved up and down with the waves to his left. Again he grabbed for the radio. "_Bjarga_ to _Carl Vinson_… _Bjarga_ to _Carl Vinson_! The mission is a go! I repeat; the mission is a go!"

_To be continued…_


	3. Chapter 3

Author's notes: Sorry it took so long to write this. Other parts later in the story we're coming to me, but I had writer's block about how to connect them from Chapter 2. Victory!

Spoken passages that are italicized are being spoken in Russian, but characters who don't know Russian don't know what's being said. Think of them like subtitles.

As always, enjoy... :)

* * *

><p>Deep in the bowels of the earth, feeble hands muddled through reams of paperwork. Adjusting his glasses, the man picked up another transcript.<p>

'So far so good… but for how much longer?' Sweat seeped into his palms. Swiping them against his faded uniform, he returned to the task at hand.

Footsteps sounded. _"Don't look so down, Korinkov."_

_"Orlov!"_ the old man cried. _"…It's you."_

A brown-haired Russian stepped into the room; his heavy cream parka billowing behind him. _"Don't be so jumpy, comrade. Who did you think I was – a Yankee?"_

Korinkov ran his wrinkled hand through what little remained of his hair. _"We've let these crazy foreigners into our land; for all we know, the Americans could be next!"_

The younger Russian laughed and walked to the console. _"Is that a tremble I hear in your voice?"_

_"I don't like this, Orlov. It's bad enough we're working with these outsiders, but to turn against our Motherland? Have you no honor?"_

He didn't respond right away. Korinkov watched his gloved fingers slide silently across the keyboard. _"This is not the Motherland our fathers meant for us."_

"Ahhhh… Greetings, gentlemen," a higher voice hissed.

"Cobra Commander," Korinkov saluted. "We didn't think we'd actually meet you…"

"In person?" he finished. "I see it as my personal duty to oversee the most important missions myself." The masked man drew closer. "I trust my latest shipment arrived on schedule?"

"Yes," answered Orlov. "I must say – you foreigners certainly don't waste time."

His metal visage hid his grin. "Good…"

"Cobra Commander!"

All turned to see Destro rush in. "What is it, Destro?" the Commander snarled.

Pictures flashed in his metallic hands. "One of our spy cameras caught these images near the coast. The Joes are here!"

"That's it!" Korinkov moaned. "We're done for!"

Destro ignored him and continued. "The man is definitely Low-Light, but we can't identify the female."

Cobra Commander looked at the pictures more closely. "Lady Jaye?"

"No," Destro asserted. "Our troops spotted her on another mission back in America. I've never seen this woman before."

"May I?" said Orlov. Cobra Commander handed him the photos. His brows furrowed, but quickly lifted as he studied them. "Well, what do you know?" he laughed.

"Know what?" the Commander demanded.

"Nothing." Then he stuffed the photos in his parka and smiled. "Leave this to me, Cobra Commander. I know how to handle our little American friends."

"You better," the terrorist growled, "or they'll be one less hand to fill when the paychecks come!"

A wicked smile crossed his face. Without a word he left; a worried Korinkov trailing after him. _"What are you thinking, Orlov?"_

_"…Just wondering how old Col. Brekhov might feel if he found out Americans had made it into his beloved Russia?"_

* * *

><p>"C'mon, sister. It's only been three miles."<p>

Slumping under her duffel, the woman glared daggers into his back. "Whatever happened to 'Ladies first'?"

She saw his shoulders shrug. "Funny, I don't see any ladies here… just _Joes_."

"Ooooh..." Milady growled.

Suddenly Low-Light stopped. "We're here."

Sure enough, the gray factory loomed above the hill. Quietly they slunk the rest of the way. Leaning against its wall, Milady turned her translator on and looked around. "All clear."

Low-Light nodded. Then he motioned for her to follow. A dirty window was the target a few steps ahead. He looked inside. "Looks like someone was here not that long ago. Come on."

Snow and dirt crunched under their boots. Fiddling with the doorknob, they slipped inside the factory through a nearby door. Dust and debris coated the processing plant; remnants of its original purpose wafting in the air.

Milady crinkled her nose. "I like fish but not this much…"

"Look, Princess, we'll cover more ground if we split up. Check the other side of the room."

She didn't reply, but he heard her move away from him. Then he spotted it; what drew him inside in the first place. A single laser shell lay along a conveyor belt behind him. Unlike everything else, no coating of dust covered its surface, telling him that it must have been placed there recently.

"See anything over there?" he asked.

"I'll say," Milady replied. "Come here."

Low-Light made his way across the factory and stooped beside her. "_Hello…_"

"My sentiments exactly. I found it on the floor. Someone must have dropped it." What she was holding was a blueprint for some kind of base – Cobra's infamous logo blazoned on the corner. "What'd you find?"

"Laser shell. Highly doubt a bunch of fish processors would have any need for that."

She looked at the shell as he held it up. Then her eyes perked. "Shhh! Someone's outside!"

Immediately they ducked behind a master control box. A door opened. Heavy boots clunked and thudded.

"Aw, there it is," a husky voice answered. They could hear paper crinkle.

"Nice going, Hawkins. How could you leave that behind?" came another voice.

"Well, excuse me!"

The Joes held their ground. The two men were silent a moment, but then their departing footsteps did the talking. Low-Light stood as the door closed. "Move!"

She didn't hesitate. Again the bitter cold nipped at their skin. Looking through the open door, a gray moving truck lay a few feet away. Two Cobra Troopers slipped inside.

Low-Light and Milady looked at each other. "Go!" he exclaimed.

At once they bolted. Low-Light reached out his hand to catch the back of the truck. A laser bolt separated him from his goal. "What the?"

The Joes turned. A military jeep was heading straight for them. What looked like a top brass was spouting something at them in Russian.

Low-Light glanced over at her out of the corner of his eye. "Any idea what he's saying?"

"Yep," she huffed. "And believe me; it's not friendly…"

_To be continued…_


	4. Chapter 4

Author's notes: Paragraphs in italics are being spoken in Russian. Characters who don't know the language don't know what's being said, but you as the reader do. Think of them like subtitles. :)

* * *

><p>"<em>There they are, Sir,"<em> said Schrage.

The white-haired Russian pointed forward. All eyes watched as a man and a woman raced to catch the back of a truck down the road.

Colonel Brekhov coughed into his fist and straightened his cap. _"Daina! Stop them!"_ The woman complied, and proceeded to fire out of the passenger seat.

The shot nearly struck the man's hand. Grabbing a megaphone beside him, the old commander hung outside the jeep's back window.

"_In the name of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, STOP!"_

A husky man beside him – commonly known as Horrorshow – sized up the intruders. _"Humph,"_ he groaned. _"Puny Americans. Hardly worth the effort."_

Brekhov laughed. _"I agree. They are still a threat, though, and must be dealt with."_

The jeep skidded to a halt. Milady and Low-Light froze. She could see her teammate's hand shifting towards a pistol she knew he was carrying. She laid her hand on his. "Let me handle this."

Low-Light said nothing; only turning back to face two angry Soviets approaching them.

Milady extended her hand in greeting. _"Good day, comrades. Is there something wrong?"_

"_You cannot fool us,"_ the gunman snarled. _"You are American spies!"_

"_Spies?" _she pleaded._ "How could you think that? Now please let us be." _She motioned towards herself and Low-Light. _" I am Elena. This is my cousin, Constantine. We're just trying to get back to our village."_

She handed the Colonel their passports. Horrorshow eyed them warily; waiting for his superior to just "give the order". But then it didn't come…

Brekhov held his chin between his fingers. Handing the booklets back to her, he glared at the sharpshooter. _"So you are citizens of the Soviet Union, yes? Then why, Comrade, do you wear those goggles?"_

Milady gulped._ "Please forgive my cousin,"_ she blurted out. _"He was hurt while making steel in a factory for the People. He was struck by the hot metal." _Her gloved fingers gleaned over the edge of the specs, making the man flinch._ "He cannot be outside without these. Even the light of the snow will blind him." _

"_I didn't ask you, __**Madam**__,"_ Brekhov sneered. His weathered finger bolted in Low-Light's direction. _"I asked __**him**__."_

Now Low-Light was nervous. He had no idea what they were saying. And the brass' menacing stare wasn't helping. She started talking again; all eyes on her while he fiddled in his pocket…

"_Look out!"_ Daina cried from the jeep.

*FLASH*

Ivory smoke enveloped the group. A gagging Brekhov and Horrowshow groped through the cloud. The elder managed to find Milady's arm; only to have masculine knuckles find his cheek instead.

Milady felt strong hands drag her to their left. Even behind the factory wall again, she could only make out the faintest shapes in the smoke. But Low-Light _could_.

Again his grip locked on her jacket. They ran further down the alley. She heard steam bursting. 'Oh no…'

Oh, yes. Dark steel hazed into view. Low-Light jumped over the links and tracks in front of them. Copying his example, they quickly slipped behind a massive car. Then it started to move.

"Grab on!" he urged her.

Milady was getting tired of the manhandling, but a single shot racing past her hand shut her up fast. Loose gravel shifted under her feet. She reached up to catch a rung about halfway up the car's ladder. One-by-one she crouched up the steps; Low-Light's heavy form close behind.

Sparks burst near his face. 'Hmm…' he thought. 'Not a bad shot.'

Daina peered through her rifle scope. Her finger grazed the trigger again, but then everything went white.

"_No!"_ Brekhov cried. He held the gun towards the ground and pointed down the alley. _"Don't shoot! Didn't you read the sides? Those cars are full of fuel! You'll blow us all to Moscow!"_

The train whistle screamed. With each chug forward it sped faster and faster out of sight – along with their targets.

The woman scowled at him and sighed. _"I could have had them, Colonel!"_ Schrage and Horrowshow ran up just as he was about to speak.

"_The Americans are escaping, Colonel!"_ the infantryman snapped. _"We must go after them!"_

Brekhov halted him. _"Wait."_ Reaching into his pocket, he slid a fresh cigar into his mouth. _"We just can't go blasting half the coast apart to catch them."_

The heavy gunmen watched him light the smoke. _"So just what can we do, then?"_

Brekhov smiled and took a puff. _"What any good hunter would do…"_

* * *

><p>Down the track, the Joes were still holding onto the fuel car. At this speed, they might as well have been going through a giant meat grinder; the cold air slicing hard against their flesh.<p>

The car ahead was one for dry goods – and a good place to hide. It didn't take much for Low-Light to shoot out the lock, and they inched their way between the cars undetected.

Milady slumped to the floor in a plume of dust. "Incredible… those people are just like us!"

Low-Light slid the door closed. "Just like _me_, you mean."

Her hazel eyes flashed. "Yes… _you_."

Heeled footsteps reverberated through the metal beneath his feet. The blonde Joe didn't need to look at her to know what she was thinking. "Something the matter, Princess?"

"Don't you _Princess_ me." It came through gritted teeth, and a pointed finger soon joined it. "What part of 'Don't engage the Russians' do you not understand? I had everything under control!"

Low-Light shrugged. "Didn't look that way to me. Besides, I didn't see you doing much to get us out of there. You sure have a funny way of thanking people who save your life."

"YOU IDIOT! Don't you realize what you've done? Now the Russians know we're here, and for all we know, their leaders could be getting ready to start raining bombs on the United States!"

That did it. "Listen, lady! I didn't come all the way across the globe to get reamed out by a Corporal who probably hasn't even left the country 'till now!"

Milady shook her head. "How dare you… you know nothing about me. And that is not the issue here, Low-Light. Hawk gave us specific orders not to retaliate against the Soviet forces. And then you go and just blatantly disobey him? How on Earth did you become a Sergeant in the first place?"

"I could say the same thing about _you_, Miss Manners."

A growl cut from her throat. If he didn't know better, he would have thought she was going to jump him. Instead she just continued glaring and huffed back to her spot along the wall. Low-Light went the opposite direction and sat down.

The negotiator turned and looked out a slit in the siding. Low-Light did the same. The two sat in silence for a few lengths.

"How long before you think the Russians will find us?" came the faint chirp.

"Don't know," he replied. He wouldn't even look at her. "We've got a little time, at least. They're going to have to find out which train this is and where it's going."

"If you hadn't noticed, we're in the same boat as they are." Then Milady's face perked up. "Wait a minute. What direction are we going?"

He thought for a moment. Digging into another pocket, he pulled out a compass. Back and forth the needle danced. Finally it came to a halt as she approached again.

"Southeast."

"I can't believe this," she breathed. "This might actually work."

Low-Light arched an eyebrow. "Care to let me in on the plan?"

She shook her head, realizing her foolishness. "Sorry. Do you remember that blueprint we saw in the fish processing plant?"

"Yeah. What about it?"

"In case you didn't notice, it was written in both English and Russian. I didn't get a very good look at it before those troopers came, but I do remember one word on there – Minsk."

"…Minsk?"

"Mm-hmm." Low-Light watched her dig out an electronic device and turn it on. "Minsk is a prominent city southeast of here. It's about halfway between Moscow and the coast." A map screen appeared as she handed it to him. "What do you want to bet our old snake friends are headed that way?"

The Sergeant watched the city in question rise into detail on the map. He didn't want to admit it, but he knew she was probably right.

Slowly he looked up at her. "Coldest place I've ever gone snake-hunting..."

_To be continued…_


	5. Chapter 5

"Aw, c'mon!"

"Something the matter, Lifeline?"

The medic gasped. Between slammed fists against the glass, General Hawk's visage reflected back in the coffee vending machine in front of him. "General, Sir!"

Hawk laughed and saluted. "At ease. Looks like Old Betsy is giving you trouble. Mind if I give it a try?"

Lifeline motioned for him to step forward. "Be my guest."

The General approached. With a seriousness only seen at the heart of the most intense briefings, the pacifist watched his commander feel his way across the machine. A smack here; a shake there. Much to his surprise, Lifeline's precious brew started pouring into his cup once again.

Hawk handed the full white mug to him. "I believe this is what you were looking for?"

"Incredible," Lifeline sighed. "Do you think you could do that with my portable x-ray machine?"

The two chuckled. "Old Betsy and I go way back. Believe me, there have been many good cups of coffee she's held out on me." Then he rubbed the side of the machine gently. "She just needs the right touch every now and again."

Lifeline smiled. "I'll say." The rich aroma wafted into his nostrils. "Thank you, General Hawk."

"Anytime, Lifeline. Anytime."

Turning to leave, he paused when he heard a sigh that wasn't his this time. "Permit me, Sir, but is something wrong?"

Hawk looked up; his arms folded heavily against his chest. "I'm just thinking about Low-Light and Milady."

"I don't blame you, Sir," Lifeline continued. "Low-Light's tests came out perfectly. But I was a little worried about Milady."

"Oh?"

"Yes. She passed the physical for field service, but just barely. Frankly, Sir, I'm a little surprised you even chose her."

The General beamed. "So you're a doctor and a military advisor, too, now?"

"Of course, not," he blushed. "But a JAG Corps Attorney? What is she going to do – read Cobra Commander his rights?"

Laughter shook Hawk's shoulders. "That I'd like to see. But to be honest, Lifeline, there are quite a few reasons why I picked her. One; she's a wild card. Cobra probably doesn't know anything about her yet."

"Okay… but she's never been on a field assignment."

"Not exactly. She's used to hostile environments, though. She was stationed with the Multinational Force and Observers for a year during Operation Calumet."

"You mean in Israel?"

"Indeed."

'Great,' he moaned internally. 'Way to go, Edwin.' "I'm sorry, General. I didn't know."

"I know." The elder waved him off. "It's not just that, though..."

* * *

><p>Round and round the wheels chugged. Minsk was only about five miles ahead. No doubt their attackers would have figured out where they were going by now.<p>

Milady lifted her pack to her shoulders. "Any bright ideas on how we're going to avoid our new Soviet friends?"

"Yep," the man smirked. Then he glanced downward. "You really should have worn flatter heels. "

She followed his gaze; her black boots almost brown from the dust and grain. "Why do you say that?"

Biting wind filled the car. His hand rested on the latch he just pulled. Then he motioned forward through the open door.

"Ladies first."

"Oh, no. Uh-uh."

"C'mon. The train's starting to slow down. Or would you rather share some Stouffer's with that big lug tonight?"

"That's _stroganoff_."

"Whatever."

He motioned forward again with his neck. Slowly the lawyer stepped forward. Rocks and snow rolled in and out of her sight beneath them. Not a cliff or anything; but enough of a ditch to mangle yourself good if you fell just the wrong way.

She held her breath. "Okay. I can do this. One force… One fight..."

His eyebrows rose. Before he could answer, she took off into the wind. Milady hung in the air a moment or two; quickly descending to a tumble in the snow.

Low-Light adjusted the straps on his pack and smiled. 'What do you know?'

* * *

><p>"<em>You lost them?"<em> Orlov sneered over the communicator. _"You are supposed to be the People's finest!"_

Col. Brekhov remained undaunted. _"And we are, Comrade."_

The younger Russian could hardly hold back his frustration_. "I practically gift-wrapped those American spies for you, and you let them slip away on a train? Honestly!"_

"_Hold yourself, Orlov,"_ Brekhov mused. _"We found the train, and we know they couldn't have gotten far. It's only a matter of time."_

"_You've had your chance, Brekhov; I'll deal with them myself. At least some of us still know how to bring honor to the Motherland..."_

* * *

><p>Trudging their way under the cover of nearby trees, the Joes finally made their way into Minsk. The Belarusians called the place home, and it seemed such a far cry from the burnt out hull it was left as after World War II.<p>

The search would have to wait, though. Their Soviet adversaries would be combing the streets, and they had to get out of sight fast. With her translator and quick tongue, Milady managed to get them a room in a small hotel. They were several blocks north of where the railroad entered the city, so they had a bit of a buffer between them and their pursuers.

The two climbed up a flight of stairs and headed to the room on their left. Low-Light slid the key into the tarnished lock. Finally, he managed to wedge it open with a shove. He started forward, but then he froze.

"Great."

"What?" Milady whispered. "What's the matter?"

He opened the door all the way and stood back. The tiny space – complete with icicles on the window – was more like a small office than a hotel room. A dilapidated table, matching chairs, and an old bed added to the ambiance. An even smaller bathroom to their right completed it all.

Low-Light looked over his shoulder. "Are you sure it's suitable, _Your Highness_?"

A shrug was all he would get. She was too tired to care or to fight any more of his smug remarks tonight.

"It'll do," she finally muttered.

Placing their things inside, they began to prepare for the next day. The number of factories and plants they passed on their way to the hotel was certainly not what they were expecting; it wouldn't be very hard for skilled engineers to hide a secret Cobra base here.

The sharpshooter pulled out a map he picked up in the lobby. Unfurling it on the table, the two sat down and poured over it.

"We should start along the north edge of the river," he said. "Easiest way to get in and out of the city, and it's on the cusp of a lot of wilderness."

His finger moved along the blue line on the paper. Milady followed it with her eyes; her drooping head not far behind. "Sounds good to me," she yawned.

"So when were you a Benning Beauty?"

Now she was awake. "What?"

"You know – Fort Benning? Somehow I find it hard to believe you ever trained there."

She stared at him blankly. "Where did that come from?"

He crossed his arms in front of him. "Come off it. I wouldn't be one of Benning's top graduates if I didn't know the old motto. _One force; one fight_?"

"Oh, that," she said. "Well, believe it or not, the last phase of training for JAG Corps Attorneys is done at Fort Benning. It's also where we get Basic Training. You never know where or when you're going to need it."

"…I see."

Another yawn broke forth. "Well, Low-Light, I think I'm going to hit the sack. We've got a big day ahead of us." She stood to her feet and started towards the bathroom. He barely noticed; at least he didn't seem to.

Low-Light heard a groan. "Now what?"

"I may not be the biggest math brain at G.I. Joe, but I can tell you that there are more Joes than beds in this room."

"Take it."

"What? But where will you sleep?"

"Trust me; sleep is overrated. I'll sleep in the chair."

"I…" She didn't know what to say. "…Thank you."

A nod was his reply. Milady started towards the bathroom again.

The ride to Minsk had left a lot of time for thinking. Yeah, he'd been rude. And yes, he was a jerk at times—as Vixen had so passionately pointed out. Yet, this man risked everything to save them and the mission. He was someone you could count on, even when things looked bad. Now he was giving up the bed too? Part of being a good lawyer was knowing how to read people. How could she have read him so wrong?

Meanwhile, the sharpshooter was getting ready to settle down himself. Piece after piece landed on the table as he peeled the layers of his uniform off. His toque; the patented goggles; a loaded pistol; binoculars; a grenade. He might as well have opened up his own artillery shop right there in the hotel room. A smile creased his lips at the thought.

The floorboards creaked. He raised his eyes; his combat knife still in hand. His comrade stood before him; a heavy blanket in her arms. Her green Army tank and slacks matched his perfectly. Well… almost. Hers were curvier.

"Here," she said. "Can't let you catch a cold."

He took it without a word and turned. The blonde soldier could hear her clearing her throat behind him.

"Low-Light?"

"Yeah?"

"Look, I just wanted to say… thank-you… and that I appreciate you saving me from that Russian. And," she continued, "I know we got off to a rocky start back at G.I. Joe Headquarters. I just want to apologize for what happened with the Black Razor. I should have talked to you about it first. I could have handled that better, and I'm sorry."

Low-Light kept his back to her. "Whatever. You were just doing your job. An Office Joe's gotta do what an Office Joe's gotta do."

Milady gasped. A chill twanged her skin. Whether it was from the cold air seeping in or her teammate's reply, she couldn't tell.

She cleared her throat again and stepped back. "Goodnight, Low-Light."

He peaked over his shoulder at her. "…I wish."

_To be continued…_


	6. Chapter 6

Author's notes: Kvass is a traditional non-alcoholic beverage in Belarus.

As was commonly done in the Cartoon series, the reference to Terry Grayson is a spin-off of fictional lawyer Perry Mason.

The word "Nyet" is Russian for "no." Enjoy!

Cold… why was it always so cold at night?

"COOPER! GET IN HERE!"

There was the reason; and he knew not to keep him waiting. Cooper ran into the living room of the old farmhouse; a silhouetted figure sitting in the red armchair in front of him. "Yeah, Dad?"

Glass glinted as it rose into the light and lowered. "I thought I told you to go chop more wood for the fireplace!"

"I was going to, Dad, but then…"

"DON'T STAND THERE SPUTTERING, BOY! DO IT!"

"Y-Y-YES, SIR!" There was no point arguing; not when Dad was well into his favorite past time.

"I should be used to this by now," Cooper grunted under his breath. Making his way down the back step of the house, the young man reached for the ax. He was just on his way to do this very thing when his father yelled for him. The man told him to do it earlier that day, and he had a wonderful habit of not letting you forget what he`d told you.

Balancing a large block on the stump, he thrust the blade downward. He knew the wood wouldn`t be needed right away. It never was. Dad was so stingy that he`d rather let him and Una freeze before wasting anything. _That`s what men do_, he`d always say. _They take care of things and make things last so their families will survive_.

*THWACK*

'Una,' he thought to himself. His beloved sister. The only spark of light in his twisted world. She was the spitting image of their mother; blonde; bold; beautiful…

*THWACK*

"Well, maybe too beautiful," Cooper mused. He`d certainly noticed the way the local boys ogled her when she passed by. Of course, they wouldn`t dare try anything when he was around. 'But then again, Una wouldn`t let them.'

Cooper grinned at that. As much as her beauty, Una had also inherited their mother`s fire and gutsiness. It was that fire that had kept her alive as long as it did…

"Where do you_ think_ you're going?"

*THWACK*

Uh-oh. Looking towards the window, Cooper could only see shadows moving.

"I'm going out to a movie with Gina and Bobbi," he heard Una say.

"Dressed like that, you're not!" The back of Dad's scarlet-colored head loomed into view. "No daughter of mine is going out dressed like some…"

"Dad, stop it! I'm not that kind of girl!"

Cooper dropped the ax to his feet. Suddenly he was not so cold anymore. Inching his way to the back door, he pressed his ear to the white wooden frame.

"Daddy, please," Una cooed, "I just want to go out and have some fun. You know I won't do anything."

"Anything, my foot," he hissed. "I work hard all day busting my back on this farm so you and your wimp of a brother can eat. And then you want to go waste your time and _my_ money with a bunch of airheads?"

"They're not airheads, Dad. They are my friends. At least they care about me."

Cooper winced. That one was a doosey. Then he heard heavy footsteps lumbering across the floor. His mind started racing. Nevertheless, he knew Dad wouldn't hurt her… would he?

"I said you're NOT GOING!"

"DAD, STOP!"

At once, Cooper rushed through the door. Una froze. Looking over his shoulder, their father hardly noticed his son's arrival, and continued locking Una's wrist in a vice grip.

"Dad! Let her go!"

Their father only huffed at him. "This does not concern you, Cooper. Get back outside and keep chopping wood like I told you."

His sister's whimpers drew his attention. Looking her over, he couldn't figure out why his dad was so upset. She was only wearing a snug sweater and jeans! "Dad, c'mon. Let's just sit down and talk about this. If you want, I'll go with Una to make sure she's safe."

"GO OUTSIDE, COOPER!"

He watched his father's hand rise. Una cringed and turned her head away. 'No…'

His chest heaved. Sweat dripped from his brow, chilling fast in the cool air. Sucking in hard, Low-Light found himself back in Minsk. He looked at the clock hanging loosely on the wall. 4:30… It had said 3:55 the last time he checked.

'Aw, great,' he moaned and slumped back into the chair. 'Not again.'

He must have been more tired than he thought. Normally he could have gone all night without closing his eyes. Of course, it had to happen when he was far from home and…

'Milady!' His eyes darted to her position. Seeing her still form, he let out a sigh of relief. 'Probably didn't even notice.'

A dull ache cut into the left side of his neck. Trying to twist the kink out, flashes of the dream continued to float through his mind. The part he didn't get to was looking over his father's body, unconscious and sprawled on the floor from the punch he had given him. From there, he would grab Una and drag her out of the house. Both of them would jump into Cooper's old blue Chevy and drive off into the distance. If it were in a movie, it would make for one exciting scene.

Low-light watched his breath rise as he sighed. This was one of his least favorite nightmares; that and the night in the junkyard with the rats. It was the first time his sister had ever been the target of his father's anger - and the last. Low-Light never saw his father again after that night, and he had no desire to change that.

'Wait a minute,' he noted. Something didn't look right. Scanning through the darkness, his eyes fell on the bed again. Low-Light watched her for a second… she wasn't breathing.

"You crazy little…" the words spluttered out. Traipsing to the bedside, his suspicions were confirmed when he lifted the covers. "Oldest trick in the book and I fell for it." Turning his attention from the pillow laying in her place, he noticed her pack was absent too.

The sharpshooter wasted no time suiting up. His weapons and pack in place, Low-Light wedged the door open again and headed downstairs. Fortunately for him, they decided to split the Soviet money Hawk had given them just in case they were separated. Tossing all he had at the clerk, he quickly made his way outside.

For most people, this would be where their journey would end. Not for Low-Light. Scanning the area, heeled footprints to his right caught his eye. They didn't call him the best hunter in G.I. Joe for nothing…

"_I told you that you were done!"_

"_No! One more!"_

"_I said, GET OUT!" _

Tables shuffled. Chairs clattered to the floor. It was a familiar scene; only this one needed subtitles.

The bartender sniffed at the man sitting in front of him. _"And don't come back until you've got money!"_

Disheveled and disoriented, the man wobbled to his feet and started towards the street corner. The bartender headed inside, finally stopping the rush of cold air from the open door. His patrons hardly noticed.

The man ran a hand through his ebony hair and surveyed the crowd. Even this early in the morning, he could always count on certain regulars to make their appearance. There was something different this morning, though. Something new…

He made his way over. _"Good morning, Miss. What can I get for you?"_

"_Kvass, please."_

He smirked and held his fading goatee. _"Interesting choice. A good one, though. It does not suit a woman well to be drinking so early in the morning."_

Milady smiled at that. With a nod, the man headed back to the bar to prepare her drink. Seems this bar was a place of great wisdom. Hopefully it held the answers she was looking for also.

She never liked to drink on the job anyway. For that matter, she never liked to drink _period_. 'It's like you always said, Grandma,' she thought to herself. 'Never let your…'

A mug settled in front of her. Its golden contents almost illuminated the dimly lit room. Slowly she took the glass; eager eyes watching her.

A hint of strawberries washed down her throat amidst the bitter brew. _"Thank you."_

"_You're welcome,"_ replied the bartender. _"Let me know if you need anything."_

He started to turn around. _"Actually, I was wondering if you could help me find someone. I thought he might be here, but I don't know where he is, or how to reach him."_

The man seemed intrigued. _"You are new to Minsk?"_

"_Yes."_ Milady motioned for him to sit down. He seemed hesitant. After checking to make sure no one needed a refill, he finally joined her at the table.

"_I don't know everyone in this city,"_ he began, _"but I do know a few. Who is it you are looking for?"_

"_A young man; a Russian, actually. He's probably in his mid-30s now."_

"_Hmm… there are many men like that here. An old lover perhaps?"_

Milady tried not to vomit. _"Let's just say we knew each other a long time ago."_

"_What is his name?"_

"_Marco Orlov?"_

The bartender ran the name around in his mind. _"I'm sorry, Miss. I do not know him. People come here every day, but I do not know all their names. You know how it is."_

Her shoulders dropped. _"Of course. I imagine most people don't want others to know that they've been here."_ Milady pulled a few bills from her pocket. _"Thank you for the drink, and for the talk."_

He took the money from her hand. _"You're welcome."_

The woman was alone at the table again. Gliding her fingers along the glass, she laughed to herself and shook her head. 'Great. Now what?' There was no point sitting there pouting, though. She had to get back to the hotel room before Low-Light realized she was gone.

_Low-Light_. A twinge of fear ran down her spine. That bed wasn't the most comfortable thing in all creation, and she found herself tossing side to side throughout the night. Several times, she noticed him just sitting there; wide-awake and watching the darkness. How could he have stayed awake for so long?

When he finally did fall asleep, the gasps and grunts from his direction woke her up. Quietly she had watched him; his face etched in whatever agony was running through his mind.

She felt so bad for him. It seemed this man never got a rest from having to be so strong.

It was right then that she decided to sneak out and try to find out about Orlov. Office Joe or not, she had to do something. She could not let her teammate down.

Slowly she stood and grabbed her pack. Milady made her way towards the entrance, and the bartender watched her departing form. Looking down into the glass he was drying, he looked back up at the crowd.

'_Wait a minute,'_ he realized. _'That man at the far right table didn't pay!'_

Snow. Snow, snow, and more snow. Was there no end to this stuff? That's what Low-Light thought as he tracked his way through the streets. Crosby got its fair share of sub-zero temperatures, but he never remembered it ever snowing like this.

Cold slush splashed past the top of his boot. He growled at the chill, telling himself that Milady was certainly going to get an earful when he found her.

That opportunity was not that far coming. The lawyer in question looked out ahead of her into the winding roads, watching a car go by. Milady stepped towards the curb, but not before something moved out of the corner of her eye.

A strong hand covered her mouth. Another one snaked around her waist, dragging her away from the curb. Pungent vapours flooded her senses, and shapes swirled in the movement as she found herself facing a brick wall at the end of the alley.

"Hold still!" the man snarled in English.

Milady gasped. 'No accent… He's not Russian!' Russian or not, she would have none of it and squirmed even more.

His grip tightened. Whatever was on the cloth he was pressing against her face was starting to do its job, but not before her saw her head rushing backward…

"Ow!" he exclaimed. He let go of her for a moment, but he was not going to let a throbbing nose stop him. His fingers found her pack, and he slammed her into the wall on his left.

She felt him press his weight against her. Again, he muzzled her cries with the cloth. A good knee upward did nothing to deter him, and his icy blue stare only magnified the numbness creeping over her brain.

He couldn't help leer. "One down; one to go."

Red light flashed between them.

Low-Light cocked his pistol. "Let her go, slime ball."

The man turned and yanked Milady by her throat against his chest. "Not a chance. Back off or she gets it."

Low-Light grinned. "I love it when they ask for it."

His hand slipped to his belt. Two sets of eyes widened; the unmistakable silhouette of a grenade rising above the sharpshooter's head.

Now was her chance. Milady connected her elbow with her attacker's ribs, managing to dash – albeit a little winded - out of his grip. The man could only watch and wheeze as she met her comrade and ran off with him.

'Blast this frigid air,' he groaned internally. Then he pulled a communicator from his parka. "Crimson Guard 8 to Major Bludd; the Joes have escaped!"

It was several blocks later before they finally stopped. By this point, Milady could barely breathe.

Low-Light knew she couldn't take much more. Looking over the stone wall separating them from the river, a nearby pipe caught his eye.

"C'mon," he motioned. "We'll hide in here."

Milady nodded; gagging and coughing behind him down the wall to the slippery rocks below.

Making their way across them, you would think they were practising for the Russian Circus. A few minutes later, they found themselves sheltered in the partially frozen pipe. Milady slipped to her heels. The sharpshooter let her rest for a bit; the cold silence not unlike the unmoving body of water beside them.

Several minutes passed. Feeling better, Milady tried to gauge how to breach the subject. "Well," she chuckled… and coughed. "Thank you for the rescue, and for the brisk jog. Is that how field Joes start their mornings every day?"

Nothing. The woman cringed. 'Uh-oh. Here it comes.'

Finally, he managed a growl and slammed his pack to his feet. "Are you INSANE? Why did you go off without me? Do you have any idea how stupid and dangerous that was?!"

"I'm sorry. I was just trying to help…"

"By getting yourself nearly killed? Seriously! What were you trying to do?"

Milady stiffened; her gaze unwavering. "What was _I_ doing? You were the one who stayed awake almost the whole night! What kind of soldier deliberately deprives himself of sleep, and risks putting himself and his colleagues in jeopardy?" Then she pointed at his head. "Is that why you wear those goggles all the time? To hide how sleep-deprived you are? When we get back to America, I'm filing the biggest investigation into your conduct, and don't think I won't do it!"

Even through the red lenses, she could see something change in his eyes. "Lay off, lady. You have no idea what you're talking about."

"And neither do you. So why don't you take a good look at your reflection in that ice over there? Probably won't look much different from mine."

The toe-headed soldier said nothing. Again, they looked away from each other; the heat almost threatening to melt the ice beneath them. The woman could feel her cheeks flushing. It was evidence of how hard she was trying not to cry. Fortunately for her, it was working.

Then it came. At first, she didn't think she heard it, but then he repeated himself.

"Sorry."

She turned and looked at him. With his chiseled features softened, he hardly looked like the hard-nosed sharpshooter who just yelled at her. 'Who is this man?' she wondered.

The woman smiled. "It's all right. I guess we all have our moments…Do you really want to know what I was trying to do?"

"Might be nice."

"Okay," she breathed. "You know those Soviet officers who found us so fast at the fish plant?"

"Yeah?"

"I don't think it was a coincidence. They were tipped off. And I have a pretty good idea who sent them."

The Sergeant chuckled. "Terry Grayson lives. Shall I go call the authorities so we can 'book 'em'?"

"C'mon," she chided. "Here me out. I think I know one of Cobra's Soviet connections, and I was trying to see if anyone knew him or knew where he is."

Low-Light raised an eyebrow. "You must have an interesting social life."

Milady huffed. "Yeah, right."

"So how _do_ you know him, then?"

"Let's just say that he was _thrown_ into my life, and it was not for the better."

Heaviness hung over her face. Low-Light watched her intensely, nodding for her to continue.

"I was born and raised in Seattle. My dad was a Canadian ambassador, but he spent most of his time working out of the Consulate General there."

"Hold on," he interrupted. "You're Canadian? How did they even let you in G.I. Joe?"

"Simple. I'm an American citizen."

"...Sounds like I'm not the one who's sleep-deprived, Princess."

Pearly whites flashed as she laughed. "My dad's Canadian, but my mother is American. I've got dual citizenship." She cleared her throat and continued. "Anyways, I was about 16 when a group of refugees made it to Seattle Harbour in an old boat. Only five survived, but one of them was a young Soviet man named Marco Orlov. The government wanted to send them back to the Soviet Union, but he said he would give up vital information about the Soviets if they let him and the others stay. My father happened to be at the facility where they were being detained when this was all happening."

"But why was he even there?" Low-Light questioned.

"He was checking up on some Canadian citizens who were being detained there, too. He was good friends with one of the officials and heard about Orlov. He didn't think too much of it until one day, about a month later, he ran into Marco at the Immigration Office."

"And?"

"They talked for a while. Orlov said that he had been trying to officially immigrate to the United States, but he was getting caught up in a lot of red tape. Since he did not have his immigration papers, he couldn't get a job, and was going to be kicked out of the hotel he was in that night. Dad remembered being impressed with this brave young man who was just trying to make a better life for himself, and asked for the number where he was staying. Turns out the information he leaked panned out. He helped the military thwart a secret operation against the U.S."

"Wow." Now Low-Light was intrigued. "So what did your dad do?"

Milady paused. "My father was a more caring, generous man then. He wanted to give Marco a leg up, so he invited him to come and stay at our home until his immigration was settled and he could get a place to live. Both Mom and I were really surprised, but Dad was known for things like that; not that extreme, of course."

"Let me guess. You were smitten, huh?"

Milady tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, trying to block the blushing underneath. "If you want to call it that. I prefer to think of it as naïve and stupid… and you can wipe that smug grin off your face. Nothing like _that_ happened."

She waited until he complied before continuing. "He stayed with us for about a month. To help make up for no rent, he did odd jobs around the house; fixing pipes; mending fences; you name it. He was quite the handyman."

Low-Light leaned back more into the pipe and crossed his arms over his chest. "Sounds like a pretty good guy."

"So we thought. One night, I couldn't sleep. I went downstairs to get something to drink, and I saw a light on in my parents' office. I didn't see anyone inside. I went to go turn the lamp off on the desk when I noticed something strange. There were folders lying open on the desk."

"What's so strange about that?"

"My father worked for the Consulate General; my mother for the Governor of Washington. They _never_ left files open."

"…Orlov?"

She nodded. "He was hiding in the shadows. He attacked me, and my parents came down when they heard the noise. He held me at gunpoint and demanded that they let him leave without a commotion. Of course my parents tried to reason with him, but you can't reason with a mad man." Suddenly she stopped, as if the words had frozen on the back of her tongue. "I thought I was being smart and elbowed him in the stomach. He let me go, but..."

A moment or two passed. Low-Light didn't want to push her, but he knew she had to finish. She needed to face it head on.

Her eyes set on her curled knees in front of her, she didn't notice him make his way over. "Let it out. What happened?"

Milady bolted upward. Clouded by tears, the red and blonde visage of her comrade filled her vision. She seemed to be weighing whether or not to continue, and a heavy sigh confirmed her decision. "The gun went off. I was okay, but we heard my mother scream. She was trying to turn away when the shot fired…she's been paralyzed from the waist down ever since."

He didn't know what to say. He wasn't one for words anyway; Una could testify to that. But where were they when he really needed them? "Milady, I'm sorry."

"I know," she nodded. "It's okay."

"What happened to Orlov?"

"He jumped through a window while we were distracted. They never caught him. Of course, for the sake of preventing war with the Soviet Union, everything was kept a secret. Dad was furious – more at himself than anyone else. He moved us up to Canada so we could at least get away from the memories and have a normal life."

The lawyer turned her head away. "That's why I didn't want to take on the mission at first. I didn't know what I would do if I saw him again."

Low-Light continued watching her. He knew that look in her eyes… all too well. Only trouble could come from it. He was about to speak when someone did that for him.

"COBRA!"

The two looked up. Bolts of blue lasers lit the pipe walls, twanging with each shot. Low-Light poked his head out, only to see several Cobra troopers massing on their location.

He ducked back inside. For the first time on their journey, Milady pulled out a pistol and started firing with him. 'Not the best shot,' he noted, 'but not bad.'

Round after round flew across the frigid sky. If they kept this up, they would certainly bring the Soviets running. They needed a better position and fast… and then it hit him. "C'mon!" he urged her.

His partner paused. Watching him leap out of their hiding place, Milady traced his path with her eyes. "Are you nuts?"

He didn't answer. Realizing she had no choice, the woman slunk down the thick icicle below…

Major Bludd and Orlov watched the scene play out on the walkway above. "Those crazy fools!" The Brit exclaimed. "What do they think they are doing?"

"Preparing their watery graves," came the sinister reply. "Move your men closer and tell them to target the ice! Make sure they can't go anywhere but forward!"

Bludd didn't argue. Looking behind them, Milady saw the stark blue uniforms loom closer. So did the lasers. Every step on the ice beneath her feet seemed weaker than before. But they were so close. They only had a few more feet to the river's…

"AAAHHH!"

She turned her head forward. 'That hole wasn't there before.' A pair of red goggles floated to the surface…

"LOW-LIGHT!"

A laser bolt streaked close to her face. Rushing to the hole, she slipped her pack to the ice and tried to see if she could see something… anything…

"Don't let them get away!" crowed Bludd.

Looking back at their adversaries and then at the hole, she knew what she had to do. Layer after layer peeled off. With one last look at the shore, Milady sucked in hard. Then… she took the plunge.

The Major and the Russian stood there flabbergasted. "What the?!" Bludd finally squeaked. Orlov gave him a look, and he quickly composed himself. "Shall we go after them?"

"Nyet," the man sneered. "The Motherland will finish them off herself. No need to dirty our hands. Call your men to retreat. They won't trouble us anymore."

"Ahem," Bludd coughed. "Right. You heard him, men! Fall back!"

'Got to keep going,' she urged herself. 'C'mon. One-one thousand… Two-one thousand…'

The pep talk did nothing to stop the jabbing pain gripping every inch of her body. Hanging limply in her arm, Low-Light's unconscious form continued to weigh them both down. Harder and harder she kicked; waiting for the dark shadows to disappear from the surface.

Minutes passed. Her lungs felt like weights, and it was taking more and more energy to hold their place in the water. Milady looked down at her comrade. A gash where his goggles had been confirmed the reason for his current state.

She gripped him tighter. 'I am not going to let you go, Low-Light.'

The water darkened… at least it seemed to. Slowly the hole above them became the only source of light in that frozen expanse. Cobra or no Cobra, she had to get them out of there. Yet, it _was_ eerily peaceful; like she could just fall asleep in that blanket-like darkness…

'STOP IT!' she winced. Again, her arm and legs took over. However, every stroke seemed to be less fruitful than the last.

They were so close, but now even the hole was getting darker. 'Can't give up… not now…'

Then they started to descend. Her eyelids betrayed her, and the light disappeared…

To be continued….


End file.
